


A Study in Silence

by Maia Elisabeth (gallifyres)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, One Shot Collection, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Season/Series 03, by the way all the above relationships are mostly one-sided or implied so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-04 00:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11543844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifyres/pseuds/Maia%20Elisabeth
Summary: Eight one-shots showing how the seven people who all mattered the most dealt with a sudden, unwanted silence in their own unique way, with one about the man whose fall off a hospital rooftop caused the silence in the first place.Eight one-shots that do not need to be read together, and are best served warm, with a topping of angst and a cup of quietness.Post Reichenbach.Rated T for minor usage of swearing.





	1. A.

**She wasn’t used to this.**

Not just the loss of talk from and about Mr. Holmes’ younger brother, but also the silence that only seemed to exude ever more from Mycroft.

Truth be told, once Mycroft had explained to his trusty PA about the various options that could occur upon the rooftop of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, she had rested her head into her hands, wondering  _ how in the world can I pull this off? _

Not two weeks later, Operation Lazarus was set into motion, commanded by Anthea herself.

It all a bit of a blur, immediately afterwards, but the weight of what she had lead struck Anthea in the stomach as she stood at the (false) funeral, dressed in her typical black office attire, watching out at the ones who had known Sherlock Holmes the best.

You see, Anthea did not have the deducing skill that the Holmes brothers did, but there was no need for that, when the pain was so clearly illustrated.

She didn’t see a frustrated, exhausted officer- she saw a man who grieved over the genius who he had saved once, but had failed to rescue another time.

She didn’t see a landlady or a housekeeper- she saw a mother weeping over the son she never had.

She didn’t see the timid pathologist- she saw a woman keeping a secret that was bursting to get out; a woman who had lost the love of her life after keeping him in her sight and care for so long.

She didn’t see a strong army doctor- she saw a broken, lost man who had to deal with the loss of his other half; a man who lost the person who mattered the most to him, a man who had nowhere to go.

And Anthea did not see the cold exterior of a British government official- she saw the warring sides of Mycroft Holmes: one of brotherly compassion (which, believe it or not, he was prone to exuding) and the other of duty to the government he was so much attached to.

Anthea believed that she was the least qualified person to be attending Sherlock Holmes’ funeral- not when the others had suffered so much: too much: for a simple friendship.

So she stood by the tree, shivering, and wished for an umbrella to shield her from the rain and the pain that was thick in the air, reminding herself that this silence.... this  _hurt_ was essential to the survival of Great Britain- reminding herself that this was essentially  _ for the greater good. _

But somehow, she just _couldn’t_ manage to convince herself of that fact as a single tear slipped down her face.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, kudos and comments are very greatly appreciated :)


	2. G. Lestrade

**He couldn’t believe it.**

There was no way that Sherlock Fucking Holmes had gone and gotten himself  _ killed _ , of all things.

It was impossible for that  _ hell  _ of a genius to get himself killed.

True, James Moriarty had been a slippery little spider- possibly one of the most dangerous men in England- but Lestrade had always believed in Sherlock Holmes.

He remembered the time that he had met Sherlock- barely an adult, at that point- weak and sick in an alley. Lestrade was very proud of that- he reckoned that without his own intervention, Sherlock probably wouldn’t have been to the point where he was today.

Actually, now that Greg thought about it, maybe it was better that he hadn’t stumbled upon that bloodied, shivering, scared, and completely drug-filled kid in the dark alleyway.

Maybe Sherlock wouldn’t be dead.

Greg couldn’t put the two together: the word  _ dead  _ and  _ Sherlock  _ simply didn’t work.

He was- had been- too clever and too arrogant for his and John’s own good.

John himself was not looking good- Greg could tell that he was slowly, gently eroding on the inside while keeping up the outer appearance of a strong soldier.

Greg couldn’t believe it when a text from Sherlock’s brother came in.

Even at the funeral, Lestrade remained in utter disbelief.

Two months later, Greg sat at Speedy’s and  _ still  _ could not even comprehend how Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Lestrade sighed, breathing in, and out. He did it twice more.

Again and again, over and over, until one day it was accompanied by a cigarette.

_ Smoke, breathe, go till the end. Repeat. _

It was a lonely life, and without Sherlock and John to keep him occupied as well as give him close company, the deafening sound of silence, boredom, guilt, and smoke settled in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, please do comment and leave kudos! These first three chapters are fairly short, but don't worry- they get longer towards the end!


	3. M. Hudson

**She thought that this couldn’t be possible.**

_Her_ Sherlock, dead?

 _Her_ John, broken?

Martha Hudson shook her head in the absurdity of it all. How in the _world_ was Sherlock dead? And what was all of this nonsense of John moving out?

She thought back to one day, when she had been abducted by those _horrid_ men, when they were chasing some woman’s phone.

John had instructed her to leave, but Sherlock shook his head, saying, _“Mrs. Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall!”_

Mrs. Hudson sat down in her little flat of 221A Baker Street and tapped her foot repeatedly, hand shaking as she placed down her cup of tea.

And she knew it, then.

It wouldn’t be an issue if _she_ left her little flat.

But she knew that if _Sherlock and John_ left their abode in Baker Street…

Then England would _truly_ fall, just as Sherlock did, off of the hospital building.

Deep, deep down, however, Mrs. Hudson knew that her boys’ time couldn’t be up.

Not yet.

Somehow, they’d return to where everything began… right there in 221B Baker Street.

And so she rose from her chair, swiping at her eyes where tears had involuntarily fell.

Mrs. Hudson might be a grieving woman, but she was also a woman who had work to do.

Martha Hudson was going to make Baker Street ready if- well, not if, but _when_ \- her boys came back.

 _“T_ _hings we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end, if not always in the way we expect_ _.”_


	4. The Woman

**She wasn’t surprised.**

Well, maybe a little. She  _ had  _ been expecting it- Sherlock Holmes did have a great many enemies, some that made even The Woman shudder a little bit upon hearing the names.

But Irene Adler was one of the few people who did not think that Sherlock Holmes was dead.  _ It seems to be a trait that runs within geniuses,  _ Irene thought, sipping her coffee with one hand (unconsciously, she had ordered it black, with two sugars) and scrolling through the news of Sherlock’s suicide on her mobile in the other in the small but bustling American  cafe in the middle of a tiny Southern California city. 

_ What trait?  _ Irene closed her eyes and entered her mind. She sat herself at one end of an immaculately organized mahogany desk, smoothing down her pristine white dress as she did so. The figure on the other side of the desk steepled its fingers and came into view, the light coming from who-knows-where of Irene’s brain showing the outline of the figure’s curly hair and upturned collar.

_ What trait?  _ The figure asked again, leaning forward, facial features coming into view- the sharp angles of his cheeks, the clarity of his piercing eyes staring at Irene sitting across from him.

Irene sighed. Whenever she went into her mind, she always thought of the detective and ended up conjuring some form of him in there in different forms- once she had caught him snooping around in her ‘Childhood Memories’ portion, wearing a tight, aubergine shirt; another, sunbathing in the ‘Florida’ section. 

But wherever Irene went, whenever she needed answers or someone to confide in, she would always end up sitting at the mahogany desk, facing whatever advisor her mind judged necessary to solve the problem.

And for the suicide of perhaps the only man she had ever really  _ loved _ , who better to confide in than that man himself?

_ You know. The trait of… perhaps escaping one’s death?  _ Irene tapped her glossy red nails on the desk, slipping back into her natural London accent (she had been using an American one for the past three months).  _ I did it once. You  _ assisted  _ me. Remember? From the terrorists in Pakistan?  _

Sherlock nodded.  _ How could I forget? But you do forget something, Irene. I did not escape death. _

_ What… what do you mean by that? Are you telling me that you are really… dead? _

Sherlock smirked.  _ No. But you were clever enough to figure that out. I did not escape death- I was never really in danger of actually dying on that rooftop. Oh, yes, James Moriarty may be a slippery, maniacal genius, but I am always the smart one in whatever situation I may be in. _

_ Except when you were with me,  _ Irene interrupted, not being able to resist her pride at confusing Sherlock on their first meeting.

_ Yes… except for you.  _ Sherlock’s smirk turned more genuine.  _ Besides, I didn’t escape death. I simply faked mine. _

_ Technicalities, technicalities,  _ Irene murmured, waving her hand.  _ The fact remains that we both cheated death. Who’s not to say that it’s a definitive characteristic? Highly intelligent people get into sticky situations and die, but not really, because sooner or later, they’ll come back to finish the job that they started. They’ll come back to outwit their enemies. Is that not what you planned to do, Sherlock?  _ Irene asks.

He gave her a tight-lipped nod. Irene looked down at the wood of the desk- but when she looked up to say something to him, he’s already gone, dissipating into specks of dust that float away. She blinked and returned to the real world, putting her mobile into her small purse, shoving on her luxurious coat  and disposing of the paper coffee cup into the rubbish bin.

Irene Adler was going back to London.  _ To home.  _

The Woman had a duty of care- one to ensure that England would be safe and ready by the time that Sherlock Holmes decided to show up once more. _ _


	5. M. Hooper

**She wasn’t sure if she could remain silent for so long.**

Silence was a lovely thing- most of the time. The petite pathologist experienced much of it inside her little morgue, where there really wasn’t much to discuss with her patients as they were all- well, they were dead.

But she had been entrusted with an extremely important job by Sherlock’s brother, one that depended on her silence.

It was the damn hardest thing she had ever had to do.

Even in her first days as a resident hadn’t been as hard as keeping silent.

Molly tried- oh, she was trying  _ very  _ hard indeed to not break.

But it was difficult, as she saw John completely snap as Sherlock fell.

It was hard, as she saw Greg slowly drifting out of focus, out of focus of life.

It pained her as she saw Mrs. Hudson trying to hang on as she lost both of her “boys”.

And as for Molly herself, it was difficult, seeing Sherlock go and seeing him fake his death.

Molly flashed back to when the Holmes brothers had asked for her help.

_ “So… we’re going to fake your death,” she stated, addressing Sherlock flatly and without any hint of incredulity, once Mycroft had finished explaining  _ Operation Lazarus to her.

_ Sherlock had frowned.  _

_ “Yes, I thought that was quite clear,” he replied. _

_ “You’re going to just… go? Not even a goodbye?” _

_ “Well, of course there would be a goodbye. It’d be staged, of course, but I would still say farewell.” _

_ “And John and the others… they wouldn’t know?” _

_ “No, Dr. Hooper.” Mycroft had stepped in, waving Sherlock out of the room. “We couldn’t let any of them know- what my brother is participating in is extremely dangerous- it involves James Moriarty, whom I am sure that you are familiar with.” _

_ Molly shuddered. “Go on.” _

_ “Moriarty is targeting many of my brother’s close relations. For some reason, however, he chose not to target you and instead went for DI Lestrade. You are instrumental in this because Moriarty doesn’t suspect you.” _

_ Molly nodded, questions of her own bubbling up. _

_ “And you. Are you just going to let Sherlock go? Will you let your own brother die? Are you willing to possibly give up Sherlock’s life?” she asked. _

_ Mycroft’s face went even stonier than usual, if that was possible. _

_ “Dr. Hooper, this is not your place to ask about my own emotions. What I am doing right now has no basis in sentiment.” Mycroft sighed, and Molly could see the hint of a tired man through his eyes. “I am asking you, Dr. Hooper, that if  _ Operation Lazarus  _ does indeed go into motion, that you will assist me. Assist my brother. Assist us in telling...” _

_ “In telling the world that Sherlock Holmes is dead,” she had whispered, tasting the words on her lips and feeling the strangeness of it. _

_ Of all things, Molly Hooper had never expected to say that Sherlock Holmes was dead. _

_ She never wanted to be one of the people who knew otherwise and had to keep it locked into her mind. _

_ Once Anthea had dropped Molly back off in her flat, Molly had paced for a good quarter-hour, wondering what she was to do. Finally, she shut her eyes and asked herself some questions. _

Do I love him?

Am I willing to do this if I love him that much?

Can I deal with hurting my friends?

_ Molly had made her decision then, texting Anthea and informing her ‘thank you very much, and I accept Mycroft’s offer.” _

Back then, Molly had been absolutely sure of her decision. She loved Sherlock with all of her heart- it wasn’t a simple schoolgirl infatuation, but she knew that it was love- the deepest, purest, and fieriest form of it.

Molly had never been the same once she first laid eyes on Sherlock Holmes.

He said “hello” to her, and she forgot her own goddamned name as she gazed into intelligent- far too intelligent- eyes resting in a lean, hunger-panged frame.

He set her heart aflame that day- and it burned with a feverish, pure flame of deep and unconditional love.

_ Oh, this is no game. No flirtations or infatuations. There are no rules here.  _

_ This is love. _

But Molly had thought she was capable of indirectly hurting her friends. Now? Not so much.

Her heart cracked a little, each time that she saw one of Sherlock’s friends.

She wasn’t sure when he was going to come back, but it was going to be a lengthy time.

A long, long silence was coming, and Molly Hooper was going to do her best to prepare for it.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearly done! Only three more chapters left for me to pound out! As always, your feedback is always welcome!


	6. M. Holmes

**He didn’t think he could do this.**

Mycroft Holmes was a man who commanded respect- a man who could make foreign dignitaries tremble with a single glance, a man who could bring down half the nation with a few words, a man who would do whatever it took to accomplish his goal.

In doing so, he learned one major thing:  _ caring is not an advantage _ .

Sometimes, it was very, very difficult to not care. But now, more than ever, Mycroft saw the need for coldness, precision, and intelligence.

He feared that if he cared too much- about Sherlock, to be exact- he would break- he would shatter into a million pieces of ice.

After all, it had been he who realized that there would be thirteen possible outcomes upon the roof of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital. And as much as he had hoped for something else, Fate had decided that, even with the twelve, simpler outcomes- it  _ had  _ to be Operation Lazarus.

Simply put, Mycroft had organized Sherlock’s death, unreal as it may seem.

And now, Mycroft Holmes was faced with the distinct feeling of  _ caring _ \- he felt it roar deep in his bones, felt the shame bubble up in a way that made him feel awful. Even though he knew that Sherlock wasn’t  _ really  _ gone, there was still the sense of… overwhelming guilt that came up in him whenever he was forced to see John, Mrs. Hudson, or any one of Sherlock’s little goldfish.

He had never cared so much, or wanted to. But he couldn’t help but want to reach out, give a little hint to each person that  _ it’s okay, we’ll get through it, he’s not really gone, Sherlock’s not really dead. _

Mycroft scoffed at himself. Since when had he turned into a bumbling fool, an idiot filled with sentiment and care? He’d never be able to get any real work done, not with all the… emotions… clouding his better judgement. 

Drumming his fingers on his desk, he picked up the glass of scotch that sat near to a copy of some newspaper. He drank, letting the alcohol burn down his throat and settle into his stomach.

No, Mycroft Holmes had a lot to do, and he was not about to let anything, much less his pesky, uncontrollable... _emotions_ bar him from whatever job he had to do.

And he had a lot of work to get through, not one of the least was bringing his brother back from dead when the time came.

But not yet.

Not yet.

_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you guess who the last two chapters are? As always your feedback is appreciated! :P


	7. J. Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, guys! I started school and got so caught up in work that I didn't have time to update! Here's a chapter to make up for it! (yes, like 75% of this chapter is a rewrite of The Scene so apologies in advance.)

**He was still lost.**

There are some things that hurt, but heal after therapy, long conversations with those closest to you, and comforting hugs. And tea. Lots and lots of tea.

The suicide of Sherlock Holmes was not one of those things.

Every day, John kept replaying the moment when… when  _ it  _ happened in his mind:

_ He looked up, squinting at the figure on the rooftop. He was so small, so insignificant like a fly up there. Did the world know all that this man had done? Was there anyone out there who didn’t believe the lies set up by Moriarty? And why would Sherlock, of all people, concede that he was the liar when in reality he was the most honest, brilliant person that John had ever met? _

_ “Goodbye, John,” Sherlock murmured into his mobile, tossing it behind him and stepping up to the ledge of the rooftop. John let his hand holding his own phone drop as he stared at Sherlock, all the way up there, arms spread as if he was trying to hold the whole of London in his heart- _

**_“SHERLOCK!”_ ** _ John screamed, trying to make his voice heard to the detective, just as Sherlock leaned forward, spreading his wings like a bird about to take flight, and let gravity take its hold. _

_ This bird didn’t flap his wings in time, some distant voice in John’s head whispered as John heard the impact of the body-  _ Sherlock’s body-  _ on the ground. _

_ After that, everything was a blur. John didn’t remember how he got to the pavement where Sherlock’s body lay, but he did remember seeing how pale and small his best friend looked, all crumpled and bloodied up on the cold pavement. So small, such a shadow of the man he was… when he was still alive. A fraction of the brilliant mind, so sharp and calculating. _

_ “I’m a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please!” _

_ A medic he vaguely recognized pushed tried to pull him back, saying something he wasn’t really paying attention to. She tried to hold him back again, red hair flying behind her, but he would not be separated from Sherlock. Not again. He tried to yank out of the medic’s strong grip, practically begging as he said to her, “No, no, no, he’s my friend, he’s my  _ friend _. Please, please!” _

_ The medic seemed to soften as she loosened her grip slightly, just enough for John to release himself.   
Perhaps she, too, had lost someone she cared about the same way he had lost Sherlock. _

_ John’s medical skills kicked in as he grabbed Sherlock’s wrist. Please let there be a pulse, please let there be life thumping through his veins, he prayed to whatever deity resided in the heavens above him as he knelt down, simultaneously feeling for a pulse over the carotid artery in the neck with one hand and in the wrist with the other. The Sherlock that I knew would never be  _ stupid _ enough to die without his consent, he thought to himself. He’d have to make sure that it was done exactly the way he had intended to go.  _

_ But there was nothing under either of his hands. No beat, no melody. _

_ No pulse. _

_ Sherlock Holmes was well and truly dead. _

_ And to most of the world, John Watson wasn’t alive, either. _

* * *

 

“It’s been almost eight months, John,” Molly said gently. They were sitting on a park bench- ironically, the same bench where Mike Stamford had told him that a certain detective was looking for a new flatmate.  _ Had that really been only two years ago? Oh, how life has changed since then. _

“I know.” John coughed and rubbed his nose a bit, feeling a sneeze coming.

“I don’t want to tell you that you should… you know, move on, but…”

John turned his head towards her, jaw clenching as his hand trembled on his knee. “And  _ why  _ would I  do that, when you yourself can’t even get over that handsome detective, sharp cheekbones and all, with his coat collar turned up against the wind, hair permanently in the state of tousled-but-it-looks-good-and-you-all-know-it: you could never get over that stupid crush, so why should I, Molly? Why…” he punctuated the word with a jab at his heart, “should I?”

He took five seconds to register the look of mixed hurt and… no, that wasn’t pity- that was sorrow- in Molly’s eyes and he realized what he had just said to his friend.

“Oh God, I’m just like Sher- like  _ him _ , aren’t I. Making those deductions about- I’m so sorry, Molly. I’m just-”

Molly looked up, auburn hair falling from her braid. “John, from the way you talk and grieve about him, it’s more than a crush or an infatuation. I think that you are- were falling for Sherlock Holmes.”

John almost snorted at her usage of the verb “falling”. Didn’t she know what connotations that word held for him now? “Yeah, imagine that, John Watson, loving him.” He paused, feeling his eyes begin to burn. “You’re right, Molly. I really… I was really… falling in, falling in…  _ love  _ with Sherlock,” he managed to get out, looking down and feeling the hot tears drop as his voice cracked on “love”.

Molly, to her credit, did not get up or laugh or leave. She put her arms around John, holding him tight as he attempted to slow down his breathing and continue talking.

“It’s so hard to believe that he’s gone. I always feel like he’s… watching or something. I know that it sounds absolutely mad, especially since I don’t really believe in that kind of rubbish, but I can’t help but hope that he’s watching us.”

Molly swallowed hard and smiled sadly at him as she pulled away. “Yeah, maybe he’s making some deductions about us.”

John had to chuckle at that. “I wonder, though. If he knew. I mean, you know, about how I- I mean  _ we _ -” 

She pats his shoulder gently. “John, I may not know much about what Sherlock Holmes is doing in the afterlife, but here’s something I do know: We’re in the same boat, you and I. Falling in love with a man who’s been dead more than half a year.”

John looked at this pathologist with newfound eyes, and something like a sense of pity overwhelmed him as he offered her the same dismal smile.

“Yeah. I guess we are.”

* * *

 

What the two friends didn’t notice as they stood up from the bench and started to walk away was the tall, slim figure with his collar turned up to the wind leaning against the trees, close enough to listen to Molly and John’s conversation.

If either one had approached this figure, they would have noticed that Sherlock was crying as he silently turned in the other direction and slipped away into darkness.

_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny cliffhanger there for you all! One more chapter to go!  
> Kudos, subscriptions, and your comments are greatly appreciated!


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